


Me, You, and Baby Equals Family?

by Caidyn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Femlock, Genderswap, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:53:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caidyn/pseuds/Caidyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing is normal at 221B Baker Street. John has moved out to live with Mary, while Sherlock is stuck in a bit of a predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Month One

**Author's Note:**

> I know that in this fandom we don't do Femlock too much but here's my little experimentation with it. More may come if I decide to write more after I finish this off. I do hope you enjoy my writings of my two things I like writing about. Reviews really are appreciated!

None of this was good and Sherlock knew for a fact. It was so far from good and okay that even she, the queen of dealing with things all dangerous and somewhere stationed in the not good spectrum, didn't know what she was appropriate for her to do. There were options that she could take, but they all weren't things she wanted. Either she could get rid of it, which would be a coward's way out, or ride it out, using bravery that she was going to have to find somewhere. Riding it out even meant she was going to have to talk to John, something she wasn't keen on doing after what had happened between them. Now, instead of living with her, John was off in some other flat in London with his wife, Mary. They had recently married, but he had left before that. The friends had a falling out.

And that left Sherlock without anyone besides her elderly landlady and overbearing brother that really just wanted piss her off. Not to mention her little problem that just wasn't going away. by using her mind to make it so. If she had that ability she would go ahead and abuse it the most she could. Her long fingers raked through the dark curls that spiraled down her back, instead of up in a tangled ponytail or a messy bun to hold them up. Sherlock tapped a nervous rhythm on her leg for a few moments before picking up her mobile and opening up a new message to John. Technically, it was right to let him know what they had done by pure mistake.

_We need to talk. -SH_

_I have nothing to say to you. JW_

Still mad. Perhaps she did deserve it since, after all, they had sex and once the thing finished she had told him to leave. Not something one should do to a man who had practically confessed his true feelings towards her apparently. That had happened a month ago now, not a few days or weeks ago. She had her reasons to do that; sleeping with an engaged man wasn't something that she wanted to be known for. Things like that stuck more than her ability to deduce. It ruined women even in these times. The last thing she wanted was to be known as was the woman who had split up a marriage. According to her thoughts, it was still going to happen. Mary always had been a jealous woman and never had liked that John had lived with a woman known for going to Buckingham Palace in nothing more than a sheet.

_You may not have anything to say to me, but I have something to say to you. -SH_

_Then go on and say it. I'm on break and I haven't got all day. JW_

_Niceties are gone since you said that. -SH_

_Always with the dramatics. JW_

_Always with the rudeness. -SH_

_Look who's talking. JW_

_I'm pregnant. -SH_

There was a delay of a few minutes between texts that made worry fill her and again she ran her fingers through her hair to try to soothe herself. It didn't work but it had been worth a try.

_Are you sure? JW_

_Very. -SH_

 

The text sent and after she turned off her mobile, tossing it away from herself. It would take John about thirty minutes to get to Baker Street according to the distance, day, time of day, and stop that he was going to take gave her time to get dressed and shower. But, Sherlock didn't shower, she got dressed in a sleek, black pencil skirt, a dress shirt, and a black cardigan thrown over it all. She added a swipe of deodorant and a spritz of her usual perfume. From there she put on the kettle when ten minutes remained. Still, she knew how to make John's tea and by the time he came back up it was ready and waiting for him by his side table near the chair he immediately went to.

John said nothing to her, crossing one leg over the other as he fixed her with a look that would make most women shiver, but not Sherlock for his intimidation wouldn't work on her as always. The chair had sunk under his weight - he had put on some weight since she had last seen him, from Mary's cooking no doubt - and stayed silent still as they sipped on their tea. Her eyes were on the test for most of the time in the silence. The cup got put down when she was halfway finished with it to pull her hair up into a ponytail. Tightly she pulled it so nothing would be able to escape save for a few strands that were looser than the others. She felt more in charge over this and at least that would be one thing rather than nothing on this playing field. "Are you going to say anything," she questioned, back straightening as she sat there in her chair. "Anything besides saying that we have nothing to say would be nice. We do have things to discuss, such as what we're going to do when that test there," she motioned in its direction, "Turns out to be positive."

"I'm not going to believe that you're pregnant until the test I bought turns out to be positive," he replied, switching one leg over the other. "These tests can be faulty at times depending on so many factors. But I'm sure you already know that. You're going to take it and we're going to find out for sure. I'm going to stay neutral. Your symptoms can mean that you are, in fact, pregnant, but they can be misinterpreted. How late are you for your period. Be honest with me, Sherlock."  
Doctor voice was in play as a way of coping with stressful situations. Since she had known him, a few years at least, she had heard it, usually pointed towards her and her little habits that weren't healthy in his eyes. Sleep or food were the things used the most, never her menstruation cycle. Between friends that are a man and woman, those things aren't typically discussed, even considering how odd their own relationship could get. His eyebrows were raised expectantly, waiting for something to come out of her mouth. Playing this act-like-an-arse game was something two could play at.

"Well, it was like any other that I've had. Lasted for about five days and was heavy for the first two then grew lighter until it was completely finished. All in all, not bad. You complained about my mood - I'm sure you remember - through it. Said I was being odd and, as a retaliation, I set your sheets on fire. A small one but it got the point through. And by the red face you have you're upset that it was me who did it. This month I was supposed to start around three weeks ago. No symptoms of my cycle, just a bit of nausea that I found odd," she said, her eyes on his now flushed face from embarrassment, "Then I noticed that my breasts looked odd and matched symptoms of pregnancy. Of course, breasts can hurt when a woman is close to their period so I waited a week more, that brought me up to two weeks late, and the nausea just increased and in another week my areolae have darkened. I'm sure you see why I think I'm pregnant."

She had cut right to the core. John Watson didn't like hearing about a woman's problems and she had taken advantage of it. Little things of information went a long way with her, this just being an example. Mrs. Hudson and her had been talking about how lucky her landlady was to have gone through menopause already. He had passed through at the wrong - well, right in her opinion - time and had immediately turned just as pink as he looked at this time. He had no problems with anything else a woman could have since he had gotten married. The fingers on his right hand twisted the gold band on his left hand's ring finger, eyes averted from her face. More than just upset over her talk of periods. Not that Sherlock blamed him for feeling that way.

"I'm staying neutral," he murmured to break the silence. "Once this test shows the results we'll start worrying about it. I just want to be sure, Sherlock. Rash decisions never turn out to be good."

Sensible as always. And to Sherlock it was annoying as always. "Hand me the test. Might as well start seeing if we need to worry about anything." She bit her tongue at the idea of adding that they really did. John wouldn't approve her words and wouldn't believe her until the proof was in his hands. That was how they differed. She didn't need to have solid evidence in her hands to know what was true or false, no matter how improbable it was.

He tossed her the test, which she expertly caught, and she stood up go to the closest bathroom. It took a few minutes to get the will to pee on the damn stick and when she was done she walked out with the test in hand. "Tell me the results when they show," she said, sitting back down after it was in his hands.

John gave a short nod as the silence set in. Sherlock could hear the traffic and Mrs. Hudson walking around in her kitchen, the clatter of a dish in the sink from blow, a loud horn honking and an angry shout from a pedestrian to the car. It was all eclipsed when the doctor in front of her said, pale-faced at that, "I guess you really are pregnant."

There it was all over again. Sherlock felt her stomach flip nervously and her eyes close. The news wasn't any better to hear a second time. It wasn't a good feeling, being pregnant; it was frightening, not joyful like it was usually depicted by everyone else. She was now Sherlock Holmes, the woman who slept with a married man and got pregnant from their stupidity to just rush into sex so they wouldn't cause any commotion and give Mrs. Hudson any hint to what was going on.

"Sherlock? Are you listening to me?" Her eyes focused in on the man who was now leaning in to try to get her attention. "I asked you if you want to keep the child? After all, it is the woman's choice and I'm not going to force you into it if you don't want to. This is all your decision."

"I've never been one to want an abortion, if that's what you're suggesting. It should be available, but I don't want to have one. So the answer to the question is that, yes, I'm going to carry the baby." She paused before going on, "But I'm sure you mean more than just carrying it. Adoption or not. That's the real question. The system for that is rather bad and I'd rather not put a child into the world to forever question if it was wanted. Even if most wouldn't consider me a fit mother, you included, I have wanted a child. My years of being able to safely carry a child full term are declining, especially with the harm I've done to my body. So, yes, I want to completely have and care for the thing growing in my womb."

John's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. That wasn't an answer he had wanted to hear, but it was the one he was getting. "You'll have to completely give up smoking, you know. And you're going to have to see a doctor regularly. I can get a benefit for you so it won't cost as much  
as it usually would since I am a doctor as well. And-"

"John, I know what I'm going to have to do. Tell people, sleep, eat, classes on this, push it out of me. This isn't a mystery to me like you think it is."

"I always have a problem when you say that you understand things but the statement before it contradicts it. You can't just call a child 'it'. After all, what you're carrying is technically a child since we're treating them as one according to your choice on keeping the baby. Nor can you talk about pushing the child out of it like telling me what you need from the store. That's just not done."

His eyes were still down to his lap and he was just shaking his head a bit. John took a few moments then cleared his throat and added, "I've got to get going. I'll make an appointment for you so you can get checked out. We'll discuss more things at a later date, especially with cases. The doctor I'll get you can tell you more about when you'll have stop taking them for the baby's sake. Text me if anything's wrong or if anything comes up. I'll text you if anything comes up on my end as well."

It surprised her how calm and steady his voice was in the face of all that was going on. In a quiet voice he thanked her for the tea then left her sitting there with dishes to do and yet another pregnancy to dispose of before Mycroft saw any of it. More questions were left in his wake and she definitely didn't feel reassured over this, like she hoped she would have been; John was good at making her feel safe in the light of danger, but that hadn't happened today.

_Are you going to tell Mary? -SH_

_Not now. Miscarriages are high in the first trimester. I want to wait at least a few more weeks before I tell her. JW_

_And you're going to be around more? -SH_

_Only if you want me to. You did tell me to leave the last time we were really together. JW_

_I won't do that again. -SH_

_I promise -SH_

_Whatever you say. JW_


	2. Month Two

The mirror didn't lie to Sherlock one bit. She grimaced, hands over her not so flat stomach. Last month there had been no pudge under her navel -- just a smooth area that was sleekly muscle. Not anymore. Another bit of proof shown of the change occurring deep inside of her. The nausea had decreased -- something she was thankful for -- but the fatigue and hunger had increased in turn. For the past few days she had been on a case, making that aspect of her pregnancy not particularly good. If she hadn't slept or eaten as usual, the case would have gotten solved faster than it had ended up taking. Most worryingly was that at this rate, everyone was going to know about her predicament by next month's end.

This week marked her eighth week of pregnancy and John had scheduled an appointment with a doctor he apparently trusted. She didn't trust his judgement. Most doctors reported to Mycroft or the people Mycroft controlled, making it a lie to call someone in that position trustworthy. The only person she found broke that pattern was John. She feared that her overprotective brother would fall upon her for answers if he found out and then try to ruin John over what had happened. Her family had always been so stressful in that sense, and when she thought about the "scandal" would be eclipsed by the next affair her sixty year old mother would decide to drunkenly have next. It was how things were in the Holmes family.

Agitation welled up in her stomach, causing her to feel more fear than she should over the day her parents found out about this. Not that she talked to them since she had turned sixteen and gotten herself emancipated, but Mycroft still did despite all that they had done to the two of them. They could do nothing to her anymore, but still she found herself pushing a hand through her curls, fingers catching all snags on its way through. The other hand went under her hair to push it up. Her mass of hair soon was in a pile on the top of her head.

She looked at herself in the mirror, glad she was wearing a loose dress -- it only hugged with some elastic around her stomach, but not tight enough to show too much -- rather than her usual tight dress shirt that got tucked into a pencil skirt. The white fabric under the blue floral print complemented her skin and drew the attention from her cheeks that were becoming full, or the way her stomach may seem. Sherlock looked up at her reflection with a sigh, smoothing the fabric over her stomach, before walking out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Her phone had a light blinking on it to signal her to a message. It was from John, she discovered once she had opened it. She sat on the bed, one leg crossed over the other.

_I'm going to be late for the appointment. JW_

_Is everything alright? -SH  
You aren't one to practice being late. -SH_

_I'll explain later. JW_

Sherlock took another deep breath, hand resting over her stomach for a few moments. The appointment was in forty minutes and she was going to have to go on her own. "Bloody brilliant," she muttered. A new doctor and dealing with prying questions from the stranger. Her chest caved in when she huffed frustratedly. Damn whatever was keeping John back. From the bed, she stood, gathering all that she would need for her visit. Really, just her phone and wall would be good enough for this afternoon.

Her feet slid into her usual black flats that were well-worn from all the running she did in them all through London and many other places. Sherlock, for good measure, also shrugged on her cream-colored cardigan to keep warm in the chilly weather London had for the last few days. She walked from the flat with a shout to Mrs. Hudson that she was going out for a few hours. Usually that meant she'd be out to have a smoke -- in her younger days it would have meant she would be out to score a hit -- but she'd given that up, down to even the patches since she and John had last seen each other when she had told him about her pregnancy. All she knew was that she was itching to have one instead of getting into the cab like she was doing.

The driver looked at her for a moment before she gave the address to St. Bart's. He pulled away from the curb, merging into the sea of honking cars surrounding them that made up traffic. It would take at least thirty minutes in this and she hated it. With nothing else to do, she toyed with the hem of her dress absently where it laid on her thighs. The music was playing some kind of rap that wasn't even the good kind she had heard before, but the kind that truly was just cursing and talking bad about women or the government. She easily blocked out the noise, focusing more on the streets they were taking and the slight motion sickness that was coming over her. This nausea was going to kill her if the lack of cases didn't first.

She felt each turn of the cab and when it stopped at last by a curb, relief flooded through her. "Ma'am," the driver said, turning in his seat to look at her, "I cain't take you all the way. Traffic's too much and you don't wanna be late fer yer thing at the ‘ospital."

Her eyes went up to him and she got her wallet out to pay for the ride she owed him. Briefly, she looked over him fully and noticed the stains on his fingers and how his general appearance was. The conclusion was that he was a junkie. At least he was a polite one. Most, by this point, would have succumbed to their addiction and become terrible people. From experience she knew there weren't too many nice junkies out there.

"Here," she said, handing him the money with a few extra pounds extra for a tip. It would go to his habit, but that wasn't her problem. He thanked her quietly as she got out of the cab. He had dropped her off a few blocks away from where she needed to be. Not too bad of a walk but by the time she was inside, her hair was wind-blown and a few strands had fallen out of her tight bun so she had to tuck them behind her ear as she went up the elevator to the floor she needed.

The waiting room was a cream color with horrible wallpaper that was there to try to remind the expecting parents of a jungle of some sort. Animals were around and in the trees. She guessed it was more for the children that might be up there. Men were waiting with their wives or girlfriends while some women were alone like her. At the desk she sighed in, and went to her seat with a bit of paperwork to fill out.

Upon finishing, her name got called and she was taken back by a nurse that gave her an odd look -- definitely recognized her -- but was still rather polite as she said her speech on when the doctor would be back with her. A few simple things were taken -- blood pressure, urine sample that she was left alone to do, height, and weight -- then she was left alone. She hadn't even bothered to tell the nurse that John was going to be there as she settled on the bed that crinkled under her.

The posters around the room were boring. All about the baby's growth and how certain things affected the growth in general. They were over things that most people had learned back in secondary school thanks to health class. She ended up laying back on the bed and pulling her hair down to redo as the doctor walked into the white-walled room that smelled like antiseptic. Her hair ended up piled on the top of her hair again by the time he finished looking at the things the nurse had taken to asses them to be healthy or not.

"No John? I swore he said he was going to come here with you," the doctor said as he sat down on a chair in front of . "I'm Dr. Pitts." His hand extended to her.

"Sherlock Holmes. But everyone here knows who I am." She took his hand and gave it a good, firm shake while her eyes stayed on his. The hand she was holding definitely was a doctor's hand; cold and rough to the touch from all the washing they had to do. Recently divorced from the slight tan line on his ring finger and the indention it had left. Bloodshot eyes with bags under them suggested a bit more than divorced. Died was more probable. "Now, start asking your questions. I want to get out of here as soon as possible." Her hand slid out of his grasp as she went to tuck a bit of loose hair out-of-the-way.

Dr. Pitts' mouth opened as the door opened by a nurse. John came in and looked about as windblown as she had. Heaving chest suggested running, probably trying to get there in time despite how he had said he was going to be late. Sherlock watched the two doctors greet each other, asking questions over how the other was doing.

Turned out that she had been off on Dr. Pitts' wife; terminal cancer and she had fallen into a coma, no hope of return, they'd decided to pull the plug later in the afternoon. Her eyes flicked from that man over to the other. He was saying that everything was fine with Mary but it obviously wasn't. There was a mark just under his cheek that stood out against the pink there from the weather. Mary had hit him. The mark had come from a backhand and the knuckles had left that. To top it off there were defensive marks on his knuckles. Oh, they had definitely fought.

Attention was back to her and she only raised her eyebrows just a bit. What had happened before John had gotten here was far more important than answering questions about her body over the past two months and hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time. She wanted to know about John. Sherlock looked at the two men for a few seconds before opening her mouth to speak.

"Can I have a few moments with John? Alone. I'd like to talk to him for a bit."

Dr. Pitts looked between John and her before giving them a nod, patting John on the shoulder as he said that he only needed to open the door and he'd be back in there.

They were alone soon after, Sherlock getting up from the cot to peer at his cheek with an exasperated look on her face. "She knows, doesn't she? So much for waiting until the first trimester is up then? Mary isn't a violent woman, but anyone can become violent when the right button has metaphorically been pushed. Definitely scratch marks on your knuckles. Bacteria live under the distal edge so wash your hands so they don't get infected." Her hands dropped John's -- she had picked them up to run her long fingers over the shallow scratches -- and she sat back on the cot while she looked at his masked eyes. Hiding from her.

"I talk all the time," she went on, "And I can keep this a secret but you can't. Sometimes I--"

"You don't have to sleep next to someone you've wronged all night, every night. You also don't have to come home to them at night and dodge questions on how you've done and how you've acted odd lately," John snapped. "Sometimes it's better for someone to know earlier than later. I hid that I slept with you for three months, two of them for when Mary and I were married! Keeping that you're pregnant is even worse, Sherlock. I hurt and betrayed her trust. But of course you wouldn't understand that because you're a damn _machine_!"

He stopped and nervously raked his fingers through his hair that was a bit longer than he usually kept it. The blonde locks flopped over his fingers, leaving Sherlock to watch him wide-eyed in his wake.

"I shouldn't have said that." Voice now quiet and full of regret. The change was obvious and Sherlock moved herself over on the cot to allow him to sit beside her. He did, the mattress sinking as the chair had the month before, paper crinkling more than it had when it had just been her there. There was more he had to say and she counted in her head -- _one, two, three, four, five_ \-- until his mouth opened once again.

"She looked _so_ upset, Sher," he only called her that when emotions were high in his mind and extra syllables couldn't be spared, "She started crying and wouldn't let me comfort her. And I just stood there looking at her like the idiot I am. I tried to comfort her but she just... broke. She told me to get out, that we were over, to go back to you, divorce papers were going to get drawn up." John exhaled shakily. "I deserved it. I really do. What kind of man cheats on someone he loves?"

"I don't know," Sherlock said softly, looking at him with a softness in her icy eyes. "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about you coming back. You can sleep on the couch in the living room if you can't afford it and you can pay what you can with me." She knew he was going to continue to pay half of the rent in what was now Mary's flat so the young schoolteacher wouldn't be completely on her own -- John was too good of a man to do something like that.

He accepted the deal and John stood, opening the door once he reached it. Dr. Pitts came back in. The appointment continued, those questions coming that she answered upon glares from John that got her to cooperate despite how grudgingly it was. Then came the part that really made her stomach flutter: They were going to hear the heartbeat for the first time. John and the other doctor left the room to let her get changed out of her lovely dress and into one of those damn hospital gowns. At least she could keep her underwear on for this. The three of them went to another place in the hospital where they did these kinds of things.

John sat next to her as she laid down on something that reminded her of a dentist's chair and her stomach was exposed for gel to get smeared over her stomach. Her eyes were on the ultrasound as the thing moved over her stomach and created a picture. Within moments the little blob had been found and a whooshing noise filled the room. It wasn't a ba-bump like her or John's heartbeat would be, but just a noise that resembled water moving through something quickly. She was smiling widely and knew by the squeeze John was giving her hand that he felt about the same way that she did.

Despite the circumstances, perhaps a child could be something they needed.

She went back to the room after the person giving the ultrasound wiped the gel off her stomach, leaving John behind to talk more with Dr. Pitts over whatever the hell he needed to. Sherlock came back out and the next appointment got set up for the next month. That one wasn't important seeing that the most important one, in her eyes, would be when they found out the sex. It already felt more real after seeing that tiny black and white blob on the screen of dividing cells that would end up creating a new life.

Outside of the hospital, she and John parted ways, both giving each other looks that warned the other to be civil. John was going to pick up his things while Sherlock was going to Baker Street to tell Mrs. Hudson that John was coming back without allowing the woman to know what most were oblivious to.

Her mission was successful with dodging most questions by lying about her knowledge of the subject that everyone thought she wouldn't understand, that being marriage and how it worked. All she said that they had fought from the marks John had when he asked her to meet him somewhere so they could talk about things. Mrs. Hudson had known Sherlock since she had been a teen, but, nonetheless, she bought into the lies fully.

By the end of the night, John camped out in the living room with a few borrow pillows and blankets to make the couch a bit more comfortable while he stayed there for however long it would take him to get things settled between he and Mary.


	3. Month Three

Things went back to normal with John back, both keeping quiet over her condition. Nothing had occurred to hint at miscarriage -- the signs really aren’t hints since they consist of blood and extreme pain -- and the doctor had said everything was looking fine at the last appointment. That meant they could start telling people at anytime about the joyful news they had.

Sherlock didn’t classify it as joyful considering that over the past month, Mary had filed for divorce and had gotten her way with the negotiations; John was left with next to nothing and she was back to Mary Morstan. Sherlock felt a tad guilty over her role in it no matter how many times John explained that it wasn’t true. It was true and what he said didn’t change her mind.

And that left her sprawled out on the couch, going over her worries while John was at work. The habit that pregnant women picked up -- placing their hands where the baby was growing -- had gotten to Sherlock. The flat was silent with her landlady out somewhere. By her calculations Mrs. Hudson was out with the man who had at least two wives scattered over the U.K. Mrs. Hudson never could pick good men for herself, no matter how hard she may try.

Today was the day for telling. Everything was right; John would be off work soon enough and Lestrade would be up to his neck in paperwork. She’d do him a favor by taking away that nuisance away for at least an hour. John had said there would be questions for her that she’d have to be patient through. Chinese food was her payment for that.

Her hand smoothed out the silken shirt against her bloated stomach. Pencil skirt fit still and by the rate at she was growing it became simple to deduce that maternity clothes wouldn’t be needed until month five. Ages away in her mind. So far away that thinking about the subject would bring it closer tenfold by how much John was speaking about it, causing once or twice a minor row that left her storming away to brood -- he called it sulking -- within her room.

_Slam!_

A shout followed that distracting noise. Another followed as an answer -- perhaps Mrs. Hudson was home. Sherlock drew a distinct line between animals howling to signal one another. Her thoughts scattered when heavy footsteps came up the stairs in the familiar gait of the doctor. Door opened and closed. He paused in the living room entryway. “At least you got dressed,” he muttered, clearly exasperated that she hadn’t done more than that.

“I did what you said to do. Clearly, I recall you saying to get dressed by the time you came to get me. And I obviously have.”

“Sherlock, I meant for you to do more than just dress. Showering would be good so your hair could get a washing. It always looks beautiful when it’s not a tangled mess of errant curls.”

One eyebrow shot up in response to that last comment.

“Beautiful,” she teased, “Never thought you were a romantic.”

He had a blush that transformed his cheeks to a rosy color one would expect to see on a man who had one too many drinks for his own good.

Dismissively, she waved her hand to clear the embarrassed air coming from John and the thoughts filling her own mind. The intense memory of her hair tumbling over her bare, thin shoulders during the night all their troubles had begun. John had whispered something she hadn’t caught from the blood rushing in her ears. Perhaps he had called her beautiful that night; the word seemed like it had passed his lips at least once before.

“Next time specify,” she said as she stood, an icy look masking her own feelings over that single word that, in reality, was insignificant. “It will take stress off of me and off you. Especially if you insist I look my best when I’m going to tell someone about the predicament that I’m currently in.”

There was an audible sigh from behind her -- while speaking she had started walking over to where her shoes were kept -- and knew he had rolled his eyes as well. Typical John, always doing a bit of sassing to try to get her to do something. It was easy for her to bypass after years of practicing on him. 

She slipped her feet into her shoes. Still fit. That was something to be grateful for. Yet, like her mother, she knew her feet were steadily growing wider. Mummy always had complained about how wide her feet here -- “Look at what _you_ did to my feet! They once were so dainty, but look at them now. Impossible for me to find shoes for these monsters.” Always had been Sherlock’s fault, never perfect Mycroft’s. -- making this something she didn’t like much.

“You ready?”

John’s voice popped up when she had been in the middle of recalling some lovely memories of her times with Mummy. Her hard eyes focused on John’s nervous ones. They definitely exhibited that he wasn’t looking forward to this, just as she was.

“I’m going to have to be ready,” she dully replied. “We chose this day after all. Together. Something we both can deal with.” Sherlock tugged her clothes down, hating that sharp stab of fear deep in her gut. None of this was good. Why couldn’t it just stop, all those pesky feelings. No one wanted them last she had checked.

In a cautious movement, John touched her shoulder. “We can wait for a few more minutes. Let’s go to the couch so we can talk.” The hand slid from her shoulder down to her hand, taking it lightly. It was a slow slide that wasn’t sensual in the least, but completely comfortable.

Right away she was shaking her head. Someday she’d have to talk about feelings, but today wasn’t that day. Her hand sharply pulled away, eyes on him with a fiery blaze. His hands were up in an instant sign of surrender, just as it should be. Every man should know when to accept defeat. She glanced down to make sure that his shoes were on and when she saw they were on, she started down the stairs of the flat. Coat be damned. A bit of coldness was something she could handle for a few moments while she got them a cab.

Heavy footsteps followed her as she burst from the flat, John shouting that they’d be out to the woman they’d told a few days ago of their news -- she’d been nothing but happiness, crying and hugging them and saying she would help with the baby for them. Already they’d decided she was becoming the godmother to their child for safety reasons. With what Sherlock did for a living and had dragged John into they needed that kind of assurance that little no-name would have a good life.

The air was cold and she hated it but John was soon dumping a jacket on her shoulders, a grumpy look on his face. Pissed him off. Oh well. He could live with it, and if he couldn’t she’d be hearing all about it when they were back at the flat. A cab pulled up for her, John going to open the door with an impassive look on his face. Her head ducked as she slid into the cab, giving the address to the Yard as she rested her hands in an automatic position over her stomach. 

John got in. The cab went in the direction. Silence ensued except for that awful music coming from the speakers. With a huff of air, she slid down in the seat, turning her head to look out the window. So annoying and pointless. If she didn’t say anything people would figure out she was pregnant soon enough.

The bump on her stomach was enough that her shirt was beginning to look a bit off. Her breasts weren’t quite working with it, the damn things. Then there was the fact about her stomach, which was going to be the bigger problem within a few months. Her estimate of needing new clothes at five months probably was wrong. As soon as a button flew off of her shirt, they were going to need a shopping trip.

She felt the cab come to a halt, a second thing that pulled her mind away from the little things. Sherlock watched as John paid for their ride -- not the best idea since he needed to save money rather than spend since he was trying to get enough money for two partial rents -- then proceeded to get out on the other side. With her coat billowing from behind her, she strode into the building, getting looks that could only be equated to cursing about stubbing a toe.

No one was happy when she came in, only a bit happier when they noticed John was being dragged along with her.

From some corner of the room she heard a noise. Donovan. Probably holding that sneer on her face that she had when she was trying to prove that she was better than everyone else. Oh, how many times had Sherlock wanted to smack that look off her face like she had with so many other girls when in her secondary school days and had less control than she did currently. And she was sure Anderson was near her, rolling his eyes and trying to get her attention back to something boring he was talking about. Dinosaurs were her guess.

Down the halls, she walked, heading straight for Lestrade’s office. Door was open, he was up from his desk. Someone had called ahead to warn him. He had steeled himself for whatever confrontation he was going to have now that Sherlock Holmes was around with her trusty sidekick, John. The two men greeted each other with a warm handshake and smiles all around. All saying hello to each other, how quaint.

“Sherlock, if it’s a case you’re after I don’t have any. If you’re desperate I have a cold case file or two I can give you,” the man said, running his fingers through the shock of silver hair that rested on the top of his head -- she liked to think that she had caused that premature greying. “I mea-”

“Lestrade, I’m not here to beg a case off you. This is a far more serious matter than that, though I would be interested in taking home those cold cases when we’re finished later.” She paused, getting a pained look from John that made her continue on. “I’m pregnant, Lestrade. John’s the father, Mary’s divorced him, and we’re deciding to keep the child in my womb.” Another look from him. If she kept acting like this, she wasn’t getting Chinese. “And John said we needed to talk about all this so we could figure out the best plan for all this.”

She could have sworn his hair had gone a bit whiter. Lestrade walked around his desk and sat down heavily, kicking his feet up with an incredulous look plastered on his face. “Pregnant?”

“Yes,” she dutifully answered. “It’s been checked out by a doctor besides John. The baby’s completely healthy.”

“How far along are you?”

Nitty gritty questions. Her least favorite. “I’m three months, around, they said, twelve weeks. As I said, completely healthy considering how I treat my body at times.”

John sighed and looked at her, adding in, “She wants to know when it’s appropriate to have to stop doing cases. I want to know when I’m going to start losing my slight sanity and when you’re going to have to start giving her cold cases so she doesn’t lose hers as well.”

She turned her head to look over at him hair that was still down tumbling over her shoulders. The only reaction she got was an eyebrow raise that almost challenged her. Not here, not now. They didn’t need to start bickering like this when talking about something important to all three of them. Sherlock pulled her typical black hair-tie off her thin wrist, using her hands to pull up her long hair so it set high on top of her head while Lestrade hesitantly began speaking, obviously still trying to figure out what was going on.

“The usual month we make women take off when they’re... pregnant, is up to the ninth month. Depends on what’s going on with the pregnancy, really. But, with you and how you handle cases, I think it’d be best if you took off around the seventh month. That way you wouldn’t stress the baby with how you work. Not good to go without sleep or food while pregnant, Sherlock. And don’t argue with me. I’ve had three kids myself. I know how it goes,” the DI instructed, looking between her and John.

“Thank you, Greg. I think that’s going to be perfect for her,” John jumped in before Sherlock could get in there. “I’ll get a stack of cold cases for then. If she goes mad while pregnant, I don’t think that anyone is going to end well.”

They were sniggering to themselves when Sherlock finally snapped, “And what about what I want to say about what you’re deciding for me. I am not going to stop at month seven with cases. I’ll stop with your police given cases, but if people keep coming to me, I’m going to keep taking them.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. He was counting to himself, most definitely. She raised her eyebrows as he spoke in a tense voice, “You’re going to take off at month seven. I’ve never had a woman pregnant and you’ve never been pregnant before. Greg knows more than us. I think you should listen to him for just this one thing. Everything else you can forget about by deleting it or whatever the hell you do with information you don’t want.”

Towards the end it was a snap, commanding and completely like a person from the army. For a moment she stared at him, blinking three times, before going on. “When we get to month seven, we’ll talk about all of that and decide if it’s still a smart idea for me to take off. I think that’s the best compromise you’re going to get.”

A tense nod was given from the ex-soldier while Lestrade had moved to stand between them as if to keep a fight back, which could happen when Sherlock was rubbed the wrong way by someone. The older man looked at her for a few moments before his face broke out in an almost awkward smile that seemed as if he was baring his teeth at her. “So you’re really going to have a baby,” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest now that the danger had passed.

“Yes, going to have the baby and keep it. Mrs. Hudson’s going to help us with the child. I’m in charge of picking out the godmother, John’s for the godfather,” she said, hand going to rest over where the baby most likely was resting in her womb. “Very exciting time, I guess. Going to prove to be at least interesting for us.”

John rolled his eyes as he looked over at Lestrade. “Yes, exciting. First child always should be like that.” He earned a small smile of approval from the DI while Sherlock’s smile was a pained one now. “Speaking of the godfather,” the man carried on, “You’ve been a help with Sherlock for a long time--”

“Longer than I should for my health,” Lestrade joked.

“I wanted to know if you would like to be the godfather,” John finished, shoving his hands in his pockets awkwardly. “I trust you and I’m guessing Sherlock trusts you as well since she’s been around you for all these years.”

“Yeah. I’d love to.” He glanced over to the woman just standing there, seeming detached from the situation. “I think we should ask Sherlock over here.”

Lestrade had made her get off drugs or she wouldn’t be able to work at crime scenes. Then he had made sure she stayed off them by those drug busts and rehab when quitting on her own hadn’t been enough. She was the first person she had really started caring for after all because they had cared about her. He deserved what John was asking him to do.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding her head slowly. “I guess he’ll have to do.”

John grinned and Lestrade shook his head. Both still the same men as ever.

“I’ll tell everyone else,” the inspector offered. “I doubt you want to go through this again.”

“You guessed right at that. Tell Anderson that if he makes any jokes I’m not responsible for what I do to him.” And soon she was leaving the office with John giving quick goodbyes for the both of them as he tried to keep up with those short legs he had.

Within a few days they were back for a case; Anderson actually congratulated her, Donovan said nothing, and Molly was ecstatic when she came to St. Bart’s to work on a specific portion of the test. What a lovely kick off to the next six months of her life. She knew it could have gone worse, meaning she would have had to tell her family, but John knew better than to do that to her.

Relaxing on the couch was far easier without worrying about how the news would go over.


	4. Month Four

Today was the most important day in a pregnancy, besides when the thing was actually pushed out. Sherlock and John were going to be finding the sex out. Needless to say, she was ecstatic but was hiding it. John couldn’t contain himself; he had been prancing around the flat -- something he only did after having a few too many drinks in him -- before going to work today. For her, it was hilarious to see such a composed man doing something as childish as that.

He then went to work, leaving her there with specific instructions for this time around. She had to shower for one thing, careful to wash her hair and body, then dress in some clean clothes since she’d opted to wear sweats and an old shirt -- she’d taken it from Mycroft in her short stint of time she’d lived with him -- for two days straight so she wouldn’t have to wear new clothes.

Her calculation about when to buy new clothes had been far of; a week ago she’d been on a case and upon bending over, a button had popped off around her stomach. It hadn’t been good at all. John gave her his jacket, though it was freezing cold outside seeing that it was February yet, so her stomach wouldn’t show through the hole. The next day they’d went shopping, getting her the appropriate maternity clothes that would stretch while she grew.

Sherlock pulled her hair up into a ponytail, showing off her now full face. It was obvious to anyone that she was pregnant. That meant she had gotten a stern talking from Mycroft over her situation. The man still acted like a mother to her. It was far more annoying now that she was in her thirties than it had been when she had been in her teens.

She pulled on one of those new dresses. In the mirror she saw the growing bump that soon wasn’t going to be an it anymore. Her hand smoothed down over it to cup it right where it more or less ended.

The dress was a deep purple that complemented her pale skin nicely. The fabric settled around her knees, brushing against them lightly. John distinctly had told her considering the current weather she needed to wear these things called leggings so she wouldn’t get too cold. In her opinion they were just tights without things for the feet. She liked them well enough. The ones she chose were black and ended around her ankles, as well as perfect for the flats she was wearing. New ones of those had been purchased as well to fit her still widening feet.

It was the combination of clothes she loved. The sleeves on the dress were long, covering up to her wrists. With the chemical burns and scar tissue from drug use, it worked well to hide them, just as she always had to protect her body from prying eyes.

Sherlock turned away from the mirror and strode from the bathroom, heading towards the living room. No one was home yet which left her to her own devices. She could do an experiment; John had confiscated her chemicals, but she knew where they were -- under his military fatigues that he kept laying on the closet floor -- yet she knew that would upset him, the thought of her breathing in harsh chemicals that could harm the baby.

Debating herself, she wound up going to grab a large book from her bedroom. It happened to be something she read when she had nothing more to do and actual patience for reading a book she could deduce the ending of. The only interesting thing about it was that it was written in the original language it had been published in. Russian wasn’t her best language, so deciphering the words of Anna Karenina would be interesting. It was better in the original language.

Her mind narrowed in on the tale, blocking out all other noises of the room, flat, and street. In her mind it all dissolved away to leave the story playing out in her mind as if she was watching it before her. The poor landowner, Levin, falling for Kitty, the woman of his dreams. He might not get her, but then he might. She’d have to keep reading to figure that portion out.

It felt like such a short time between when she began reading the tome to when she felt someone touch her shoulder. Sherlock had wide eyes that snapped from the page up to the smirking face in front of her. John was far too pleased with himself for her enjoyment.

“Shove off,” she growled, rolling her shoulder back to get his hand away. “how long do we have until we’re meant to be there?”

“We’re late, actually. You were supposed to meet me at St. Bart’s an hour ago now. We agreed upon that, remember? That way I wouldn’t have to come back here to retrieve you and spend more money than I had to.”

Of course she had forgotten. It had slipped her mind completely that she had made that obligation. If she was more like her mother -- which, gratefully, she wasn’t, she took after her father, which, in her opinion, was just as bad -- she would blame the pregnancy for her sudden lapse of memory.

One thing she didn’t like how John said he had to retrieve her.

It made her feel like a dog.

“It’s fine,” John carried on, “I’ll just make sure to remind you next time so this doesn’t happen again.”

The book was out of her hands the next moment and he helped her stand, despite how she could do it herself. When she ought about it, he was telling the truth about how late they were -- thirty standard minutes of hm waiting for her and thirty more of the cab ride home -- and they did need to get a move on. Thats the only reason why she didn’t protest his bustling her around to be ready to leave.

Didn’t help either that Mrs. Hudson stalled them for five minutes to wish them luck then remind them about how they were late. Sherlock gave a terse smile to the woman before launching them out to the street.

Traffic had gotten worse. That meant it would be over thirty minutes before they got there.

Damn.

The best way to get a cab was to push her stomach out so it looked larger with a hand resting on her lower back. The other went to her stomach to give that appearance of it being a burden on her. Cabbie drivers typically took pity on pregnant women or women with children. John hung back slightly while she went up to the curb. That hand raised from her stomach and she motioned for a cab.

One stopped in the space in front of her, rolling down the window to ask where she was headed. She explained the situation in the best frantic voice she could manage, earning an immediate sympathetic reaction. Sherlock gave him a winning smile before straightening and motioning for John to follow after her. The blogger walked to the car in a military fashion, opening the door for her. She got in, not moving over from where she had sat. With a sigh, he went to the other side where the cars were a got in.

They drove off quickly, just a bit over the speed limit -- her deduction was that he had children. This driver was going to get a nice tip. She rested her hand over her stomach once more with a small smile on her face. John even looked relieved now that they were on their way. She watched as he pulled out his mobile to dial a number. From the profuse apologies, she gathered it was Dr. Pitts on the other line.

Those icy blue eyes rolled towards the window, seeing that they were taking a back way that cabs rarely went by. Later, she was going to talk to this man. No doubt in her mind how valuable a resource he would be to her network. Cab drivers saw all, but no one saw them, as someone had once told her.

It still took time for them to arrive at St. Bart’s. The two in the backseat hurriedly pulled their wallets out to pay, Sherlock getting the money out before John, which earned her a nasty glare from him. There came a look on her face that showed how little she cared for his disapproval. After suggesting to the driver that someday he should stop by 221B Baker Street for a further job opportunity, she got out.

She shepherded them indoors, her long strides making it difficult for John to keep up. 

“Is now really the time to talk business with someone,” he asked once he had caught up. “Because it doesn’t seem wise to me to talk shop when there’s a baby on the way and all.”

“Work never stops, John,” she interrupted without heeding the amount of disapproval she’d get for that. It wasn’t helping his case by shooting down things like this. “Baby or not, I’m going to continue working. I thought you should realize this by now.”

John huffed in reply.

The topic was one of those things she wasn’t going to win so easily. Damn. Just the simple sound of his air allowed her a rush of insight into his mind. He was more traditional in his parenting views while she was completely opposite thanks to her parents and how they -- mainly Mycroft -- had raised her.

Immediately, they were taken back to their room when spotted. The nurse instructed her to sit on the chair and pull her shirt up so her stomach would be exposed. The door was closed and that left her with John, who still looked cross with her.

With a glance down to her stomach she gave her own huff. Wrong day to wear a dress.

“Go out and ask them for a gown that I can use.”

Sherlock wasn’t going to get her clothes dirty on the first time out of her closet. John did leave her to come back with a plain blue gown that would work perfectly for the time they’d be there.

Her back turned as she shamelessly took her dress off, knowing John’s eyes would respectfully fall to the ground. Strands of her curly hair fell into her face once it was over her head and internally she hated that she now had to fix it; hair in her face was a pet peeve that anyone would pick up if they simply paid attention.

The gown was on her and her hair fixed when she turned back to John.

“Take this.”

Her dress was extended to him and, wordlessly, he took it as she lowered herself down on the chair just as there was a knock on the door. Less than a second later, the doctor with the terrible name entered.

“So sorry again that we’re late,” John said, shaking his friend’s hand. “We had a miscommunication. We really had no intention of being this late.”

This late? He had told Dr. Pitts to prepare for her coming in later, hadn’t he? Sherlock set him with a glare as she watched the two doctors converse, talking about things that were completely off topic from why they were there. Along the way, she learned Dr. Pitts’ first name. Gerald. The poor man.

“You ready to see this baby,” Gerald Pitts asked, going to sit in the chair near the equipment. “I’m sure you already know that we can find out the sex today and administer a few other tests to find out how the baby’s doing not just from the look.”

“Yes, I know. Let’s just get on with it.”

John gave her a scolding look for her hastiness while Dr. Pitts simply chuckled while he lifted the gown up to reveal her stretched stomach that already seemed too large compared to her typical body. Stretch marks already showed from the stress her body was under. It would be hard to recover fully from this.

Once again the cold gel was squirted on her stomach and spread around with the even cold sensor. Sherlock felt John take her hand, squeezing it lightly. Did she look nervous? She swore she had been masking that fact nicely from the men in the room. Her eyes snapped from their entangled hands when the monitor switched on to show the typical black and white screen.

“Now, let’s look for this guy,” Dr. Pitts said as he began searching her bump for the blob. Her eyes were glued to the screen, hand tight around John’s to keep that close. “Having a bit of trouble finding it... and ah! There it is.”

Sherlock saw the shape right before her eyes. Defined head, body, hands. From what she could see, the baby there looked good and healthy. Fetal position with its thumb in its mouth. She wasn’t focused on the sex, but, _God_ , did she want to know. To see John’s expression, she glanced over to see tears in his eyes, which, for once, she understood. If she was honest with herself, she was close to those pesky tears as well.

“Do you want to know the sex?”

Grudgingly, she turned her head to look at the doctor to give the obvious answer of, “Yes.”

Dr. Pitts looked over to John, who only could bob his head yes.

“Well, let’s see.” He leaned in close to look at the screen once more as he moved the sensor around a bit. “Seems that you two are going to have a boy. Congratulations.”

Before she could get anything in, John had choked out, “Hamish.”

She looked at him with a furrowed brow to ask, “What?”

“Hamish. My middle name. I told you when I was suggesting baby names for you and Ian Adler. We should name him Hamish,” he answered, agreeing with himself already.

Sherlock looked at the monitor, seeing the shape of her son right there and knew he would be a perfect Hamish, just what she was sure John wanted.

“Yes. We’ll name him Hamish.”

A grin split John’s face that she soon mirrored. Sherlock squeezed his hand before looking to Dr. Pitts so he could conduct the rest of what was already a perfect visit.


	5. Month Five

For a few weeks, John had been bringing things into the flat. Sometimes it seemed to be furniture, others it was tarps, and even others it seemed like cans. Sherlock didn’t question what went in and out of the flat, so long as it didn’t interrupt what she did, which wasn’t very much when she thought about it.

Lately, she had been suffering from a lack of cases. Lestrade wasn’t hesitant to give them to her since her stomach was growing larger bit by bit. On a typical stint of no cases, she would have whipped up an experiment to keep herself occupied. Except she couldn’t do that anymore; experiments were outlawed at 221B Baker Street by none other than mother hen Watson. As he said, it would make things safe for the baby boy growing inside her and make it easier for when he was born. All that meant to her was that she couldn’t go back to doing them in general.

Being pregnant was doing more damage than good.

“Up! It’s time for you to get up,” John announced, waltzing in wearing well-worn clothes she had never seen in her life. What was he on about now? Seeming to get her question, he continued talking and tidying things up from the mess she had created her the living room. That was her space now; the bed hurt her back so he was allowed to take it.

“We’re going to start getting Hamish’s room ready today. Might as well start now rather than later. It’s important for mothers because they get the urge to nest--”

“Nest? You make it sound like I’m some bloody animal that needs to get their area ready for birth. We have four months. This can wait. And we’re not birthing here. We’re going to the hospital where I’ll have an injection so I won’t kill anyone, specifically you.”

The man sighed, carding a hand through his short blond hair. He extended it to her next. “You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. Nesting just means to get the room ready for the baby. It really is important for mothers to do.”

“Have you been reading up on this,” she scoffed, half surprised he had gone that far. “Pointless either way. You can do the room on your own if that’s what you really want.” Still, she stood up to humor him with this, taking his hand to help stand -- it was getting tougher to do that simple act. The most she planned on doing was stay around for a bit, move a couple of items, then claim that she was too tired to finish the job.

John’s hand squeezed hers then dropped from the grasp. He led her upstairs, her legging behind a bit when she would have pushed ahead of him a few months ago, hell, even a _single_ month ago. The room was completely different from when she had last seen it; furniture was pushed to the middle -- furniture she had watched him bring in from her spot on the couch -- with tarps under them. Mrs. Hudson had allowed him to take the old things to the basement, something she rarely let happen.

On top of the tarp rested some paint cans, brushes and rollers, and stencils. The stencils were of animals, something that was clichéd with baby’s rooms. Sherlock already was looking at them disdainfully, knowing that she was going to deal with them. She walked closer, leaning over to peer at the items, hand on her back to ensure she wouldn’t fall over stomach first.

“You got stencils,” she muttered, picking them up one by one. “A lion. A giraffe. A zebra. Do you really intend to up all these on the wall?” The paint for them was there so she figured the answer would wind up being a unanimous yes. Hamish wouldn’t even be in be room much. This whole ordeal was more for John.

Sherlock chose to go ahead and do this. She bent over once more, dropping the stencils, to start opening a paint can while John hurried over to do it for her. Treating her like a child once again. It had been ages since she had needed someone to take care of her. Always had been her doing that part even if it hadn’t been the best care in the world.

“Grab a roller and a tray for paint.” But, John did it for her even after he told her what to do. Angrily, she snatched the roller up and took her tray to go to a corner of the room away from John once enough pastel green paint was in there. Rage filled her, white hot, inside her despite how any other woman would have found John’s actions sweet. “Now, what’s wrong with you,” he asked.

She huffed, dipping the roller in paint to start rolling it over the wall. “Nothing. You’re just being an idiot,” she stated. Treating this like an everyday fact was for the best so he wouldn’t retaliate as harshly. John never treated her thoughts rudely unless they weren’t firm. Another roll up the wall, breathing in calmly so she wouldn’t yell too much. Her hormones simply were on the edge.

“Oh, I’m an idiot now? Wait, you’ve always thought I was an idiot,” he shot back in a bland, grumpy way. “I don’t see how this is really a revelation to you. Ever since we first met, you’ve called me an idiot.”

“It’s not a revelation. I’m simply reiterating it for you so you know exactly how you are. You know how I enjoy reminding people of the transparent facts. Or you really should begin learning after all the time we’ve been together,” she barked. Oh, how she hated the dry way he said things, how he always had to be a sarcastic shit.

“Yes, I do know. Every single day for some people, especially Anderson. What the hell did he even do to deserve the treatment you give him?” There was the sound of a paint roller violently hitting the wall. He was angrier, angrier than she had believed he’d get.

“Breathed.”

Any other time, she would have gotten a good laugh from that, but not today. All she got was another swing at the wall with the spongy, wet roller. “Breathed? Just because someone breathed it doesn’t mean they deserve someone _bitching_ at them. It pisses everyone off, you should know.”

“Now we’re choosing to yell at a pregnant woman?” She turned to look at him, hair whipping around to strike her neck. “Fine. Be that way. Be the biggest _dick_ you can be towards me!”

John snorted, “Yes, me being a dick to the girl I knocked up. I’m the one making you do all this, from keeping little Hamish to getting his room all done up. All my fucking fault!” He looked over his shoulder at her, eyes flashing with anger.

This time she did the slamming; dropping the roller to the floor while her hands curled into fists. “Yes, it is your fault! You were the one who forgot to put the damn condom on and didn’t pull out before you came!”

“Yeah? Well we both carry half of the chromosomes needed to create him. And you should have fucking said something if you’re so bloody concerned about that! We both made a mistake but we can’t just let it consume us.”

“I don’t make mistakes,” she said in a deadly, stony voice.

He sneered. “I’ve seen you make mistakes _loads_ of times. You’re not some know-it-all. You’re a human no matter what you say or anyone else says. So don’t say you don’t make mistakes because that’s just a terrible lie.”

“Me being a human has been debated by many people with no answer ever given.”

“Not by me. You’re the most human person I’ve ever met.” Sherlock shook her head while he frowned. “You really are,” he insisted. “No one can convince me otherwise.” Even after all the stories people had told about her, about all the things she had done to him simply because she could, he still was gullible to her true self.

“Whatever you say.” 

Sherlock leaned down and picked up the roller, walking over to him. “Do you believe me,” he asked. She gave no answer. “You should, I’m very right about it. I don’t see how you don’t believe me. That’s another mistake you’re making.” His mouth opened to carry on, but to shut him up, she smacked his chest with the roller. Now, his mouth was gaping with shock as she rolled it up the shirt.

“See? I make no mistakes. Not even this was a mistake,” she coldly said, rolling it back down then up in a different direction. The pastel green was making a mark on the old shirt that she rather liked.

“Oh, I see how we’re playing this game now. Unfairly.” John had a wide grin that transformed to a grimly straight line. One hand raised with his own paint roller to go to the top of her head, giving a streak of the paint through the top of her head, mixing the green with the black.

The gasp was one she couldn’t hold back as she stared at him, close to slapping him. Instead, she shoved him back with the palm of her hands and pushed her roller across his face. “Green’s a good color on you,” she teased, turning around as John gave a playful growl.

Arms went around her waist, over the bump, pulling her so she felt his warm chest against her body. Since he was shorter, it was a bit of an awkward position, but not too much of one. For payback, he rubbed his cheek over the sweatshirt she was wearing so it would smear all across it. And she liked this sweatshirt too.

“Oi,” she exclaimed, elbowing him in a playful manner, earning a overdramatic oof from him. “Let go and I’ll help with this rather than fight with paint. I’m sure this is bad for Hamish in some way.” Nagging always got him to do what she said as she soon was finding out.

His fingers curled across her bloated stomach to scratch over the fabric. “You have a point,” he mumbled against her shoulder. John pulled back, sighing as he glanced at his shirt, a forlorn look on his face.

“See, if I had my chemicals, I’d be able to make a solution to get the paint off.” Purposefully, her voice trailed off, a pouting look on her face meant to sway him from the cruelness of keeping those precious things away. The most they could do was cause burns on her. She had millions of them that made the skin paler than the rest of her body and a bit sunken in.

His face scrunched up to a frown, followed by a tired noise. “Fine. You can have your chemicals back, but only _some_ of them. And when you use them you have to tell me so I know.” John smiled proudly when he realized she didn’t like that agreement.

“Will I have to wear a mask as well,” she joked. The automatic grin slipped away when his eyes lit up with an eager smile.

“That’s a great idea! Good thinking, Sher.” He shone brighter while she glowered.

“If you call me that one more time, I swear you’ll have more paint on you,” she grumbled.

“Alright... Sher.”

With a growl, she chucked her roller at him.

XXX

Instead of taking the afternoon to do the job, it took three days. One to put first coat of paint on, the second to put the second coat, and the third for her to watch John carefully stencil the animals on the wall wear the crib would be from on top of one of the dressers.

He was the one who moved the furniture around even after her protesting to help him since she was able to. In the end, she hadn’t won that argument. Once done, they stood side by side to look at the work they had done together.

“You know he’s not going to be up here much, right,” she asked quietly.

“Yes... but it got you up, didn’t it?”

Sherlock turned her head to look down at him after the statement. John wrapped an arm around her waist, grinning all the while.

“Arse,” she muttered, him chuckling softly.


	6. Month Six

The flat was silent, the only soft noises were the crackling of the fire and her flipping the pages in her book. Sherlock was getting closer to the ending of it and despite all the backstories that were irrelevant to the original plot of the story, she deemed it a decent read. The only thing she could care less about was what happened in the end; Anna Karenina’s cheating couldn’t be condoned in the consulting detective’s eyes even if she apparently loved the man she was cheating with.

All had been calm for the last few days, not just tonight. Lestrade had finally thrown her a case and it definitely had given her some relief. An easy, quick case, but a case nonetheless. During it, she had found herself growing slow, the child in her womb delaying things in a way she despised. John had to assist her more during it and Anderson, being ever the prick, had snidely questioned if she should even be at the scene more than he typically did.

This time, she had almost gotten kicked out because she had reeled back and hit him squarely in the nose. Blood had gotten everywhere and Lestrade had moaned about how the whole crime scene could be contaminated. Still, there had been bets about Anderson’s nose -- was it broken or just bleeding from the initial force of the blow? -- but, to her dismay, nothing interesting came out of it.

The page of her book made a noise over the fabric of her shirt when she turned it. Sherlock had around one hundred pages left. With the silence of the flat, she had every intention of wrapping up the novel that night to move on to the next that could prove a tad more interesting. One thing she hadn’t counted on was the way her stomach jumped for no particular reason.

Her eyes stayed on the distended stomach attached to her body. The book rested against it stilly. Sherlock knew Hamish wasn’t kicking. Kicking felt more like a flutter of movement that was followed by a rough jolt that didn’t cause any violent movement of her body like this had. It wasn’t him turning either. That felt like food in her stomach twisting around, only without the nauseous feeling that typically accompanied that.

Fear filled her. Something was wrong with Hamish and she had to do something to make it better.

“John,” she called out, her voice showing her panic. Sherlock never got like this mainly because she was good at controlling fear. It wasn’t often that she grew out of control with her emotions. “John!” Louder. Shriller. The man came out just as her stomach jumped all over again. Her knuckles were white from how hard she gripped the book. It offered her no solace.

“What’s going on,” he asked cautiously, walking slowly towards her. “Did something happen in your book that wasn’t favorable? Throwing it won’t do any good with changing the plot, but if it helps you, go right ahead.”

This time she chucked the book at John instead of some wall. He artfully dodged it. “Was that really necessary, Sherlock? You threw that bloody book at me.” With an annoyed look on his face, he picked up the book to set beside her on the couch before taking a couple of steps back at her next outburst.

“Yes it was,” she shouted. Hamish gave another violent jump inside her. “Something’s wrong with Hamish! I was reading and I felt him _move_. Not some movement where he turned around, but one that made my stomach _jump_.”

For a few moments John was rooted to the ground, the same fear showing in him that was coming out in her. Hamish moved again followed quickly by another. Her hand clapped over him to try to soothe. It seemed her panic was making the baby more distraught. Sherlock was lost, just as John seemed.

He walked to her, taking his steps lightly. Over her hand, his rested. “He’s not kicking,” he murmured, her fingers smoothing over her skin. “And he’s not turning like you said.” John paused while Hamish popped both their hands up. “I think it’s just hiccups.”

“Hiccups?”

“Hiccups. Babies get them in the womb from an early age but you can’t feel them. Now that he’s getting bigger you’ll be able to feel them more. He’s fine, Sherlock. No need to worry.”

The embarrassment of getting this wrong caused a blush to spread over her cheeks. In her whole time of pregnancy, not one person had told her that they could get hiccups in the womb. Sherlock crossly sucked on her cheek, finding herself a bit anger, especially when he hiccupped all over again.

John sensed her anger and his second hand spread on the underside of her engorged stomach. The dim lighting made it hard for her to really see what he was doing. She stared owlishly at him, the hand staying paralyzed under his.

“Shh,” John whispered. “Calm down little guy. You’re scaring your mum even if she won’t admit it.” He shot a reassuring smile at her that kept herself from smacking the back of his head. “Don’t worry. Daddy’s here.” Another sharp movement from Hamish caused John’s hand to smooth over her stomach. “It’s okay. Daddy’s got you.” John repeated those words, ending up getting the baby to stop. Only Hamish now kicked at his father’s hand, probably because he was excited to hear that voice.

“He’s going to be like me,” Sherlock teased. “Already acting like me with how he hits you.” She flipped her hand over under his and tickled his palm before moving away the best she could with her overgrown stomach. “You can go back to doing whatever it was in the bedroom. I don’t need your assistance anymore.”

John scoffed, leaning away to give her a good look over. “You’re not getting rid of me that fast, Sher,” he earned a warning glare at the nickname, “Besides is nicer out here than it is in that bedroom. Have you noticed that there’s always a faint scent of smoke and chemicals in your room? I’d rather be out here with the nice fire you have going.”

“It smells like smoke out here as well,” she lectured. “I suspect it’s because we have a fire going. I doubt you’ll like the smoky aroma out here than you do in my room.”

“In your room it’s more of a chemical smell to it. What I like is the nice wood part of smoke, not something artificial.”

“Purist.”

“Thank you.” John gave her a cocky smile as he walked back through the kitchen. Sherlock fought back a smile that threatened to overtake her. Damn him. The book was resting on her stomach ready to be read by the time he came back, her eyes trained on the place she had left off when the hiccuping had begun.

John sat beside her, opening up some medical journal. She settled into the quiet again with the man beside her. Her mind narrowed down to the story, leaving the rest of the world a blank. That feeling didn’t end until the last line of the book. Resurfacing, she sat in a stupor of the end of a story she wasn’t upset to see end.

“I like watching you read,” John murmured after a few moments. His book was closed on his lap. Now she could see what it really was. A parenting book. Her eyes rolled. “I’m being serious. You let go when you’re reading and make little faces that tell people what’s going on in the story. It’s cute.”

“I am _not_ cute,” she snapped, turning her pink face away from him.

“You definitely are. Especially when your nose scrunches up from something you find distasteful. Make you look like one of those rabbits. And those are most definitely cute,” he insisted.

In response, she huffed. There was nothing more she could do to explain her distaste to him. Words wouldn’t do it justice, nor would hitting his arm, though the proud toddler-esque smile made her want to.

“Told you that you are! Can’t even think of a good argument to it.” He clucked his tongue, picking up the book again. Sherlock watched as he focused in on it. Angrily, she reached over, ripping it from his hands to toss across the room. He gaped at her.

“I’m not cute and if I make faces so be it. You’re probably lying to me anyways so you can get a rise from me. There’s my argument, John. Happy to have something more to argue about?”

“What a weak argument coming from you. Typically they’re better formed than suggesting I’m lying to you about something as serious as making cute little faces while reading something,” John explained as if she was a child. “Most people do it but they don’t kn--”

Sherlock shut him up by grasping his chin tightly with a hand to secure it there. He couldn’t speak, only stare at her with wide eyes. She had her own menacing look in her eyes that encouraged the silence she had driven into him. “Good,” she murmured to herself with a deep breath in and out. Leaning in closer, her icy eyes went over his face. “I’m sure this will shut you up nicely.” Those were the last words she said before her lips pressed to his.

Her hand had to release his chin to rest in her lap so he could do something. Painfully this reminded her of the night her and John had spent together all those months ago; she had kept her hands to herself in the beginning, not touching him with an attempt to stay polite and not get carried away. That had backfired. Just like that night, John was the one to casually touch her shoulder. He gauged her easily and moved his lips back.

They slid against hers wetly, creating a sound that definitely was one that resembled kissing. Their noses brushed together-- causing her to breath in sharply. Her turn to move, to show she reciprocated this. Fingertips danced down her arm to grasp her wrist. John’s hand was as warm as the mouth on hers. They picked up pace until they panted between kisses, her hand coming up to grasp his hair.

Pulling back to actually breath, John licked his lips like a nervous dog does. “Does this mean anything to you,” he asked hesitantly. “Tell me now if it’s just hormones making you act wonky because I don’t want to get attached to the thought that we might have a chance together besides switching a kid back and forth.”

He looked so eager yet so ready for failure that Sherlock couldn’t find words that rested on the tip of her tongue. “Yes,” she wanted to shout, “You have a chance to be with me! We could raise Hamish together and try to be a normal family!” But those words didn’t come out, they remained inside of her like feeling were.

John cleared his throat with a brief nod. “Got it. Just hormones.” He stood, her eyes still on him. “I’ll be back in your bedroom if you happen to need me to calm little Hamish once again.” The shaggy blond hair became mussed by his hand from him taking out the feeling of failure that she caused and took on as his own. “G’night Sher.”

This time she didn’t do something to him for that nickname since he simply walked away. Sherlock turned so she was on her back, fingers steepled to her lips in a familiar fashion. Time to ponder things other than the inadequacy of this and how she should have told him exactly what she thought.


	7. Month Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baby Mama definitely helped me write this chapter.

This time, Sherlock knew that they were going out. John had told her two times daily -- once in the morning when she woke up and once at night before they departed from the fireplace in the living room -- for two weeks, simply to inform her that they were going to Lamaze classes.

Already she knew what she’d be taught there; simple breathing and pain coping techniques. John felt she needed to know them. He hadn’t even given her a chance to interject. They’d just be wasting money on it, but she felt she could have a bit of fun with the class.

John was restricting her ability to do experiments all over again. Then, with it being the seventh month and how Lestrade didn’t forget oaths he made, her cases had been taken away. On the website, it even said that she wouldn’t be taking cases for the time being. Oh, she’d make them, John at least, pay for this.

“You’d better be ready,” John shouted, slamming the door behind him as he walked in. “Even if you’re not we’re still going.”

A glare was set on her face as she stepped out, a hand on her large stomach. “I swear that I should hit you for that,” she muttered. She was ready, wearing slacks that had an elastic waistband that settled around her stomach and a white, long-sleeved jumper that made from material that stretched easily.

Even her hair looked decent. Instead of a half-assed ponytail or knotted and limp curls, she had chosen a messy bun that left her hair piled on top of her head. Judging by the look on John’s face, she looked nice. Nicer mussed than he did. He had on clothes that were mussed from sitting at a desk or bending over sick children to examine them all day.

She smirked and turned around for him, that hand stuck to her stomach protectively. “I’m guessing you approve,” she murmured out, glancing down at herself with the unexpected obstacle of her stomach. “Get your jaw off the ground so we can get going.”

“Are we taking a cab or walking,” he questioned, grabbing her coat to help pull it on for her. She pushed her arm through one hole, hearing John mutter under his breath, “Well, waddle for you.”

“If you keep going on like that, you’ll regret it,” she warned. He didn’t take it seriously, merely rolling his eyes with one of those good-natured chuckles. Usually that would have made her calm down and forget her evil muses, but not today. He had this brewing for some time now. They always said that payback was a bitch. “But, we’re getting a cab. I’d rather not waddle down the streets and make us late for this very important date,” she finished sarcastically.

Another chuckle. “Sounds good. Come on, let’s get you primed for hailing a cab.”

The theory still stood that the more pregnant she got, the easier it got for them to get someone to pull over for them. John placed a guiding hand on her arm while they went down the stairs, him behind her. Once a driver pulled up by her and they were inside, she asked, “How long is the class?”

“I think it’s an hour. It’s once a week for a month. We just caught an opening.” John proudly smiled over at her. He’d be a bloody brilliant father, that much she knew. That damn smile almost made her feel guilty. Almost. By the time she was done, the opening would be back.

Riding with John wasn’t too bad. She took up half the middle seat, making it easy for John place his hand lightly on her thigh. One good thing over the past few weeks had been them reconciling after their kiss; John had apologized and Sherlock shut him up by saying they should try the whole couple thing, for the sake of Hamish, of course. Thinking of her son caused him to take notice with a sharp kick to her upper stomach.

John was the one who got out and paid the driver, not to mention help heave Sherlock out of her seat, when they arrived. “Let’s get in there. We’ve got about five minutes until the class actually starts.” He took her hand with a firm squeeze to it while he took her off to the class.

People were grouped in there, introducing each other or quietly sitting and talking with the person they brought with them. When someone noticed them, a hush fell over the room like a wave. This only happened because they were basically celebrities, her and John. They picked a corner near the back where an unoccupied mat was.

John gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze without even a look towards her. The instructor -- a woman who was middle-aged, smiling widely at her class while she scanned the faces - soon came out to greet them. Her arms opened wide as if she was trying to embrace them all as they sat like a class full of toddlers, waiting to get the go ahead to do what she told them to.

“Classh,” she finally said, her voice holding a bit of a lisp -- Sherlock’s eyebrows went up at that. “I am jusht sho _happy_ to shee your bright fashes out there looking at me. I can jusht tell that thish ish going to be a _great_ classh.”

Sherlock glanced over at John. He had his teeth running over his bottom lip, an obvious suppression of laughter there. Her head turned back once the class finished clapping, acting as if this was the best speech they had ever heard.

The instructor’s hand went up to help silence them. “Now, classh,” her gaze turned a bit harder, “How many of you are going to let your darling come into the world without the ushe of harmful chemicalsh? Most of the hands raised, only a few daring men raised theirs along with their partners. John wasn’t one of them since they hadn’t talked about it, and Sherlock hadn’t raised her hand at all.

“And how many of you are planning on ushing chemicalsh that will dull down that beautiful and natural pain that comesh with childbirth?” Another, harder, glare as she scanned the room. The look landed on Sherlock and her raised hand that stood alone in the room. Challenging that glare, her eyebrow cocked up with a dare for people to disagree with her.

Before the instructor could move on and try to get over this, some woman with red hair cut off at a bob around her chin turned around. She was fit with an open, disgusted mouth and shocked eyes. “That is so sick,” she shot off. Her husband put a hand on her that she immediately tore off. “How dare you say that?”

“I say that because that’s what I plan on doing. Once I’ve dilated enough and the pain had reached my limit to warrant sticking a needle in my spine, I am going to take advantage of the pain medication offered,” Sherlock shot right back.

The bob twitched after that, as if the disgust on her face was so much that her face had to quiver with it. “But they’re harmful to your baby,” she spluttered, “I’ve read--”

“Yes, you’ve read on an unreliable website that first popped up when you typed your question into Google. Now, I’m no doctor, but I am very sure doctors wouldn’t offer you medication that would be harmful to your child.”

“Bu--”

“Do I look like I’m finished talking?” Silence from the bob. “Good. Now, I personally don’t want to feel myself rip in every way possible or anything break or pop out of place as the child passes through my body to be delivered. Pain might be your thing, though.”

The bob shook in disbelief while the woman finally, reluctantly, clasped her husband’s hand only to look for support. “At least I’m married,” she hissed. A weak comeback, but it affected John more; his head ducked down, hiding his burning cheeks.

“Your husband looks pale about all the things I’ve talked about so I doubt you’ll have him to hold your hand,” she murmured, voice deadly and dripping with venom. “Besides, I doubt he’s the father of your ‘darling’. Based on how you only took his hand to look for solace after I told you facts rather than lies you bought into off the internet. Oh, a pale face. I definitely hit the right mark.”

Husband and wife looked at each other silently, one questioning the validity of her deduction while the other shirked away from it. John tapped Sherlock’s arm to signal it was time for them to make a less than graceful exit. The instructor didn’t seem ready to deal with this. She stood there blankly at the front of the class. Time for them to leave with that silent request there. Finally, Sherlock thought. No more having to go over information she already learned.

John assisted Sherlock from the from the room and got them a cab. The ride to the flat was silent, John steaming with anger while Sherlock braced herself for the onslaught. Only when they were upairs did John start in on her.

“Why the hell did you do that,” he asked in tired voice that made him sound older than he really was. “Do you know how bloody hard it was to get into that class? I’ll answer for you; it was really bloody hard. And you went and ruined all that. This late there’s no chance that we’ll be able to get you into another class.”

“Don’t sound so stressed,” she murmured. Shuffling over to the mirror above the mantle, she pulled her hair from the bun to start putting it into a ponytail as well as watch John. “If you had let me talk to you about the class, you would have known I already knew the techniques. They’re simple exercises that anyone should know who’s in my profession.”

John heave an exasperated sigh. “Why didn’t you just go along with the class? It would have been easier to do that than... _this_.”

“Because,” she turned around, “Payback’s a bitch.”

At once, his brow furrowed as he tried to think of what he had done to deserve this. She could have done something worse, but she didn’t tell him that. “The experiments,” she filled in. “I want to do my experiments, John. You expect me to be perfectly fine without cases _and_ experiments. If this is going to work, I must have one of them. Your choice to which, but if you say no to both, I get to choose the one I get.” And they both knew which it would be.

“Fine,” he muttered. “You can have your damn experiments.”

Smiling triumphantly at him, she went and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. She always won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry this took me so long to update. And I'm sorry if this sucks because I'm getting back into the groove of writing.
> 
> It's the summer and I have a job, along with other responsibilities, but school is starting soon so I won't be as busy. Enjoy the chapter and, again, I don't plan on taking this long to update again.


	8. Month Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost missed the teaser trailer while finishing up editing this for you guys.

The past days had gone by in a flash. Only two nights ago Sherlock had woken up on the couch with a twinge in her back that was more annoying than anything. Moments later there had come a pressure in her pelvis that was painful rather than annoying. Brows furrowing, she curled her legs to her stomach, rolling to her side, face in the couch. That usually helped with cramps so she figured it might help this time.

Over the weeks since the brief Lamaze class, her body had rounded out further. She took notes of it on random pages that held her observations on specific experiments. Lucky for her, Molly would me around once a week to give her what she could from the bod of the recently deceased. That gave her something to do, but nothing that would warrant the pain manifesting in her.

“Probably just a cramp,” she muttered, though her subconscious told her otherwise.

John was fast asleep in her bedroom, so she had to be quiet. If she woke him up, would awaken the mother hen. Her face reflected the unexpected pain with how pale it was in the mirror. Nothing other than that seemed amiss as she peered at herself. One thing for sure, she had to pee. Pulling down her underwear, she did just that. When she stood up to flush, fear gripped her whole body just like the first time Hamish had hiccuped inside her. It held her fast in its grip.

A strangled cry left her: “John!”

Among the piss, a bit of pink blood was there. It was too late in the pregnancy for a miscarriage and the fact led to two thoughts: one, she had a stillbirth; two, something else was dreadfully wrong.

For now, she was going for the latter. How had she ignored early sis? Early in the pregnancy, she had felt random stabs of pain, but nothing had seemed wrong with that; her body had been changing, making room for a child. But, this wasn’t normal growing pain anymore. Not at all. Her mind screamed at her and soon John was by her side.

He masked his panic better than she did. “Hospital. _Now_.”

The cab ride felt longer than it really had been. Her only solace was John’s hand tightly holding hers. It stayed there while they were checked in and a female doctor came in to tend to her faster than they usually came. After a bit of a check up, she announced, “No real bleeding, but to make sure everything’s okay with your baby, you’re having an ultrasound.” Upon arrival, she had been transferred to a wheelchair for easy movement. Walking was deemed a not to do in case something truly was wrong.

Sticky cold gel was smeared across her stomach. The same woman -- whose na Sherlock couldn’t recall -- pointed at the screen as she looked for something. “Nothing on the ultrasound. Baby looks okay. Placenta is where it should be on the wall.” A momentary pause before, “Tell me your symptoms again.”

Right away the culprit was named. An incompetent cervix. According to the doctor, she was _very_ lucky not to have lost Hamish due to it. John was taken from the room for her brief pelvic examination to prove that the woman’s suspicions were correct.

“How can we make sure he’s okay,” John had asked once they both knew the reason of the bleeding.

That left her where she was now. Officially put on bed rest. She had to stay in a bed that was uncomfortable for her back with nothing to do. No experiments since that meant she’d stand, only books and the telly if she got permission from John to go out to the living room and sit in her chair or lay on the couch. The bed and couch were the only two places that were allowed.

Day two was up and already she was willing to tear her hair out. John was at work, giving her chances to do outlawed things. Only problem was that Mrs. Hudson came up every hour, give or take a few minutes. She just knew that John had put her up to it. Their landlady would come in, talking and cleaning up messes around the flat. Not their housekeeper her arse.

The upside for today, was that John happened to be late coming home from work. No explanation so her guess was that he was held up by some worried parent with too many questions. Her calculations told her that she would have, give or take, half an hour to herself, enough time to conduct a short experiment if her timing was correct. Immediately Sherlock pushed herself off the bed, using the bedside table to help. Right when she waddled to the kitchen, she heard the tired footsteps coming up the stairs.

John came in moments later. “No experiments,” he snapped, setting down a couple of bags he had with him.

“But, John--”

“No buts--”

“I’m so _bored!_ ”

“Suck it up and go back to bed.”

Huffing, she watched him walk off towards the living room. Going back downstairs by the echo that hit her ear. She ventured the danger to bend over to peer in the bags labeled with the Tesco brand. Chips, dip, little things that looked like favors. What was John planning?

The doctor came back and immediately grew bit pale when he spotted her. “I said go back to bed,” he said in a more forceful tone. “And close the door behind you.” Deadly even. More duress than she wanted to deal with.

“I’m going, I’m going,” she muttered.

What was John doing? She sat on the bed, hearing him mess around before he got smart and turned on loud music that muffled noise up. That annoyed her more than the bed rest. John was doing something in _her_ flat that she had a right to know about.

Based on the items she saw, it was a party. A small party from the lack of extra items. And it would be held at Baker Street since he had gone out and bought all the damn things for it. She wasn’t supposed to know about it one bit. That made her want to know more than she already did. Who would be coming? What would this party even involve in the first place?

What felt like hours later, there came a knock at her door before it creaked open to show Molly’s forever nervous face when it came to her. She smiled in that taut way. A few voices reached her ears over the music that came with the open door, but the pathologist shut it before Sherlock could identify them. “You’ve gotten so big,” Molly gushed, following it with a blush and an open mouth to correct her words. Before that train wreck began, Sherlock stopped her by putting a hand up.

“Yes, I have gotten big. It happens when you’re pregnant. Small talk done, what’s going on out there? I assume you’re here for John’s shindig.” She glanced over the other woman. Casual clothes; a pink jumper -- cat hair covering it -- and jeans fit her well, but not _too_ well. That meant this “party” -- if that was the word for it -- was small and no need to dress to impress, not since Molly had snagged Lestrade as hers a few months ago. “How many people are out there?”

“I--”

“You’re not supposed to tell me, are you? Fine. You’re also supposed to keep me entertained until they really need me out there.”

“Actually, I’m supposed to take you out to see everyone.”

Molly then helped her up; her nose scrunching up like a rabbit’s as she did so. The music was turned down now. Mrs. Hudson’s laugh was heard, John’s chuckle, and Lestrade telling some story that kept everyone amused. Their eyes turned to the two women when they walked in. Lestrade’s mouth dropped open, closing immediately when his girlfriend gave him a look.

“You’re terrible about planning parties,” Sherlock barked, looking over all of them. “Why are you holding this one. No special holiday that’s incredibly commercialized. What’s it this time?”

A look of pure confusion passed over John’s face, marked by his eyebrows coming together. “It’s a baby shower,” he slowly said. “It’s usual for people to have them so they get gifts of things they need for their baby.”  
Oh. Not once had she heard of something like that, even if John made it out to be a common practice. John quickly moved things on so this wouldn’t be focused on. “Are we missing anyone? Seems like we’re all here,” he said, glancing around as he did so.

“Actually,” Molly cut in, her voice tremulous. “We’re waiting on two other people. They’ll let themselves in. I told them it was fine if they did that.”

“I swear if it’s Donovan and Anderson, I’d gladly go back to my room until this whole thing is over.”

“Sherlock, this party is for you,” John sighed.

And now that he was being difficult because he believed she was being difficult. Still, he helped her sit down in her customary chair that squeaked under her new weight. To fill in the silence, Lestrade launched into some humorous story, taking Molly’s hand to swing and run his thumb over.

Instead of listening to the story, Sherlock watched those hands. Molly finally had someone who didn’t make her gain weight, marking it as a good relationship. Lucky her. Even if SHerlock was with someone, it was only out of convenience. For once, Molly was a very, very lucky woman. A man like Greg was hard to come by. He was completely devoted to the end, even after a relationship was basically over.

“Sorry we’re late,” a familiar male voice announced. “We got stuck in traffic on our commute here.”

Her head shot up and away from the intertwined hands, peering up into the face of the speaker. A man with mid-neck length brown hair -- a red tint to it -- complete with a goatee of similar color. His blue eyes shone as they always did, lit up by a smile on his lean, high cheekboned face. A red haired woman held onto his arm, looking at the group with a smile that masked her worry.

“I’m sorry, but you must be the people Molly invited,” John commented politely.

Immediately that man held out his hand. “So sorry. I’m Victor Trevor, an old mate of Sherlock’s from Uni. All this has been over the news and now, I have to say, I’m happy to see _this_ in the flesh. Not to mention meet the man who is in charge of it.”

John took the hand, shaking it warmly. He always had liked meeting people Sherlock considered acquaintances -- even better were the ones who claimed to be her friends. When she called someone that, it almost was a slang word for friend. “This must be your wife,” he added in.

“Elizabeth Trevor,” she said, shaking John’s hand in a sharp, military fashion. “I’m better known as Lieutenant Commander Trevor in the Royal Navy.”

The Army doctor’s eyes lit up at once. Most of his Army mates were dead or still deployed. What a treat for him to have someone to actually talk to about military. After Victor kissed her cheek, he went over to Sherlock. The party had officially separated into groups, as it happened in most no matter how hard the host tried to keep it from doing that.

“So,” Victor said, sitting in John’s chair, leaning forward so his elbows were on his knees. “Congrats. I remember the time when you were so adamant about not having children.”

She grimaced. “Yeah. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“You look happy, though. Pregnancy suits you.” The playful smile toyed on his face for a few moments before it cleared away to become serious. “You really like him, though. That’s obvious enough even to one of those idiots you chose to associate yourself with.”

“Victor, I’m not getting into this right now no matter how much of a tempting subject this is. All you need to know is that John and I are planning to stay together for the baby so he has a mother and a father, the proper thing to do as the world says,” she muttered.

“A boy? That’s great. He better be active or he won’t be able to keep up with you. I only have one more thing and we’ll talk about fencing like we used to. Be lucky that you have John. From his blog, he seems like a great guy and _you_ snagged him after all the shit boyfriends you’ve had.” Another huge grin that split his face then he added, “Have you gotten any better at your epee?”

XXX

All in all the “baby shower” -- although there was no baby present and she still had no clue how a shower fit in, in any sense of the word -- went well. People cleared out a few hours later. She had gotten Victor’s new mobile number so they could talk more while she was on bed rest. A few good presents were given to them -- mainly gift cards to various stores.

Her chair became her new bed while John picked up the bit of trash that was littered around. “What did you and Victor talk about? You were together the whole time,” he murmured, glancing to her.

“Fencing and his wife for the most part, you were a topic for a bit.” Watching him, judging his response, she twirled a piece of messy hair around her index finger.

“Oh, what about me?” Curiosity saturated his voice.

“I should be lucky to have you.” John scoffed. “And I agree.” His back straightened to show how interested he was. “You could have left me to myself and gone to Mary, your wife, but you decided to do the right thing by trying to stay on both sides. I don’t see why you chose me over her.”

A heavy sigh out. “That’s because I’ve loved for a helluva lot longer than I loved her,” he stated. “She’s a great woman, but it wouldn’t have been fair if I stayed with her pined for a family with you.”

His answer threw her off guard. The finger ceased twirling, her lips parted very slightly, and she stared at him.

“It’s always a good speech when Sherlock Holmes doesn’t know what to say,” he teased.

She chucked a pillow at his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fell into the pit of Victor Trevor looking like Tom Hiddleston.


	9. Month Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized halfway through writing this that birthing freaks me out.

“Goodnight,” John said, finally flicking off the light by the bed around midnight. It quickly became dark, leaving Sherlock wide awake in it. As usual, she wasn’t tired and was left to her own devices until she actually got to that point. Usually that was around the time John woke up in the morning. The only noise around her was the sounds coming from the street.

She trailed her fingers over the large bump on her stomach. It had grown larger, more weight down towards her cervix. Soon, the pressure would become too much and result in contractions that would continue until Hamish came out. It could be any day that she’d end up at the hospital, pushing a bloody baby out of her body. Needless to say, she didn’t feel too thrilled about that idea.

In the darkness, John began snoring softly. The noise resonated through the air to make it seem louder than it really was. She sighed, gently shoving his shoulder to turn him away from her. Towards the wall was far better than right in her ear. Sherlock continued rubbing her bulging stomach. Whenever he decided to come out, she’d have that chance to meet him.

Sherlock groaned softly when she realized just how sentimental she sounded saying that. Completely like any other mother. How dull. She had never wanted anything like this for that reason. Mycroft had been perfectly right in saying that caring was a dangerous disadvantage. It would swallow her whole now that she had emotional ties holding back.

Hours passed with her quietly thinking about just what she would do once this baby was out. Fewer cases or Mrs. Hudson would play an active role in raising Hamish. This was one thing that John and her hadn’t talked much about. And it was getting a bit late for doing things like that.

There was a familiar uncomfortable feeling that she associated with the incompetent cervix. Only, this time, it was accompanied by another feeling. She chose to ignore it, moving to her side, back facing John.The extra support of the bed on her stomach helped just that little bit to lull her to sleep before the usual time.

John’s movements were what woke her up, quickly followed by, “Sher, did you forget to do something before bed?” Brow furrowing, she sat up to look at him. Then she realized the bed under her was wet. Just a large wet spot that made her blush.

“I think I wouldn’t have woken up if I had peed in the bed,” she muttered defensively. “Did you even think that we might have a larger problem on our hands?”

She didn’t even want to think that, but she wanted to pass that blame to something else than her bladder having too much pressure on it. Mentioning that she could be in labor made him pale at once.

“Don’t even joke about that. It’s not funny.” Han his fingers through his short blond hair, turning serious very quickly. “Did you feel any contractions? I don’t specialize in that field of doctoring, but I know enough to say for sure that you might not feel them at first but they grow stronger over time that they occur.”

“No, John. I don’t feel any contractions, but I start to, I’ll tell you and get to the hospital. Though, unlike me, you have work to go do, so I suggest you start getting ready for it and I’ll monitor my body for anything unusual.”

He rolled his eyes and went to one of his numerous bags littering the floor. HIs move into the bedroom wasn’t a permanent one by any means. Another thing they had to talk about, figure out whether or not John would wind up with his clothes in her closet.

Sherlock pushed herself up further, watching John between feeling her abdomen. Soft, meaning currently there were no contractions. That meant either she was between them or she really had wet the bed like some damn child.

John came in a bit later to finish dressing and grabbed all his other things needed for travel in this city. “I’ll see you when I get home. Remember that you left your book in the living room last night before you went to bed.” He kissed her cheek with no mention of the bed. That made her feel better about the situation.

Once he left, she stood up and started doing her best to gather up the bedding to give it a wash. The best she could do for the mattress was allow it to dry on its own, perhaps even a spritz of some air freshener they probably had around the flat. Her wet clothes went in with them, leaving her with her underwear in her hand. There was a translucent substance in her underwear besides the wetness. She touched it, realizing quickly that it was mucus.

Mucus plug, an early sign of labor. A lump grew in her throat and her hands fiddled with something over that fact, something that was turning into a reality. The feeling cut through her chest straight to her being. Birth would either start soon or weeks. Later rather than sooner in her opinion.

Sherlock tossed her underwear into the washing machine getting it going soon after. She’d let John or Mrs. Hudson worry about putting it in the dryer next. Waddling to the bedroom, she redressed in some comfy clothes, not really minding that she might have to go somewhere else that day if her vague deductions were correct.

She then waddled to the living room, where she found her book. Heaving herself down to the chair, she listened to it groan under her weight, just like most things did now. She grabbed her book and right when her mind went to reading, the sound of rain began to strike the window pane. Perfect for reading.

With the book being written by a misogynistic man, it was hard for her to focus on the characters. Sherlock came out of her book feeling annoyed a set it down all over again. That was why she had decided to go bed earlier with John.

Time to find something new to do or, at least, something interesting. An experiment was out of the question with how long she would be on her feet and what usually happened during them. John had gone to lengths to show that she wasn’t very careful when doing them and, typically, got herself hurt in the process. She sighed softly at the memory of that damn chart he’d pulled out to show her. Chemical burns, spills on furniture, and threats she’d made during the experiments he’d recorded. With that kind of data, she couldn’t argue very well.

That left her getting a book to read besides the one closest to her. It was difficult to get up from the chair, so she decided just to stick with Hemingway she was forcing herself to go through. Very frustrating for her to do, but she’d find a way. Somehow. And hopefully without throwing the book. John wouldn’t enjoy coming home to a book in some random place looking battered.

Sherlock ran her fingers through her tangled curls, staring towards the entrance of the room. What more could she do for the day? Gently, she tapped the hardened area of her stomach. Then she felt a trickle of something warm down her leg. No scent of urine, meaning it was what she had been dreading.

She heaved herself up, going to the bedroom to find her purse that held what she needed; wallet and mobile. Again it was easy hailing a cab and when her situation was explained, the driver was off in a flash. Clearly had children himself. He took shortcuts that most drivers ignored so they could make bank from driving people around through traffic. It helped that most people were ignorant about the side streets.

The driver pulled into the circular stopping point and asked, “Do you need help getting in there? Do you have someone waiting for you?” That was when she realized she hadn’t even told John that his son was on the way.

“No,” she answered in a tight voice thanks to a light contraction. “I’ll be fine on my own. Someone’s coming to get me.” Sherlock pulled out her wallet to find that it only had a few pounds in it, not enough to pay the full fare. “Can I pay you later? My name is Sherlock Holmes and --”

“Ma’am, I’ll write your name down and how much you owe. Everyone knows who you are already.” Now she could imagine him being the man who blabbed to the tabloid writers about how she had been all alone, without money, and on her way to give birth. That would make a perfect headline for writers to work with.

“Yes, of course.” She then got out of the cab, hurrying herself into the building to show her ID to the nurse. There wasn’t really any explanation needed for the nurse since she hadn’t changed. “John Watson is somewhere around here working,” she added in, “He wants to be here for all this.” More like she wanted him there for it all.

A nurse put her in a wheelchair to wheel her to one of the rooms. Dr. Pitts came in moments later with a small smile on his face. “Nice to see you Sherlock. John has been contacted and I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can. There are some clothes you’ll need to change into before I can start checking how dilated you are. Contractions have started, correct?”

“Yes, they have. I’d appreciate it if you could leave so I can change.” Pitts bowed his head and left, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock only could take solace in the fact that John was on his way, probably fretting like the mother hen he was. She leaned forward to grab the clothes meant for her, already beginning to undress so she could pull the gown over her head.

Her clothes were in a pile on her legs when Dr. Pitts came again. “Bend your knees. I”m going to check if you’re dilated enough to start pushing. She did just that and he pulled the sheet up enough so he could have good check.

John burst in just as the examination finished, his cheeks pink and breathing heavily. “So, you’re water _did_ break.” No use telling him that it happened later. “How dilated is she?”

“Not enough,” Pitts said. “You’re going to have to wait around a bit until that point. I’ll come in periodically to check on you and all you have to do to get me is call a nurse.” He gave them a curt smile them walked out of the room, closing the door again.

John pulled chair to her, taking her hand with a smile. “You’re going to do great. Any idea how you want to have him?”

“Vaginal birth, but I’m planning on having an epidural. No need to feel pain while I push him out and my body tears in every way possible. Oh, and when can I get the shot? I’m already finished with the pain I’m having now.”

“You can’t have an epidural until you’re dilated enough and the contractions are close together. Dr. Pitts already said you’re close to none of them. So, don’t complain about it and just suck it up like any other expecting mother does.”

“I’m the one having him and I’m going to have an epidural when I want it. Call one of the nurses in.”

“No. Relax and let your contractions get closer together. Don’t whine.”

But, she did whine nonstop. She complained and squeezed John’s hand each time a contraction came, her face knotting up in pain. Pitts came in every so often to check on her each time directing the questions to John. Asking about contractions, closeness and intensity, and about how Sherlock was going to give birth. Each question he answered dutifully until it was time Sherlock got her shot.

It breezed by for after that. No pain and when she was moved to one of the rooms meant for birth, all she had to do was push when they told her to. John stood by her head, holding one of her hands while he whispered encouragements to her, eyes bright. They flicked to the doctor and nurses helping, then to her. Finally that steady pressure was gone and he knew Hamish was out. Barely pushing herself up, she watched John cut the umbilical cord and the doctors rush Hamish over to the area to be cleaned and weighed.

As soon as his throat was cleared, a piercing wail left that little boy and had her immediately. John brought him over to her to hold with what looked like tears in his eyes. “Are you crying,” she asked in a hoarse voice. Her whole body felt sapped of energy. John lowered Hamish down to rest on her chest.

Wisps of black hair were on top of his head and his crying had quieted in favor of rooting around for food. “He’s just as loud as you but already has a better appetite,” John whispered, reaching one of his hands out to touch the soft hairs.

“He has your eyes,” she finally said once they were back in the room they had first been in for her recovery process. “Deep blue eyes like yours.”

John lifted Hamish off her chest a moment later to hold him, rubbing the baby’s back. “Doesn’t matter who he looks like. He’s a healthy baby boy. But you should go to sleep. You’ve had the excitement you’ve been looking to have for ages.”

“‘M not tired.”

“You’re really going to argue about this, aren’t you?”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

He sighed and sat in the chair close to her bed, setting Hamish on her chest again. “You’ll need it to feed him. Trust me. He’ll take all your energy when he has some milk.”

Sherlock lazily waved her hand to dismiss the idea, resting it on top of Hamish’s back. “I doubt that,” she whispered. “He’s so little.” She almost didn’t trust herself to touch something this small.

“But he’ll grow so fast. Soon enough he’ll be an adult, leaving for Uni. Starting his own life.” John shook his head and reached his hand up to smooth back Sherlock’s sweaty hair. “He’ll be here when you wake up, I promise.”

Biting her lower lip, Sherlock nodded her head. Her eyes closed a moment later, feeling the steady breathing of her son. Already asleep. Fast asleep and in whatever world of dreams baby’s had. She followed him soon, turning her face in the direction of John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, it's almost done. Second to last chapter is done. Updating soon as I can.


	10. Epilogue

“Hamish, come on! We’ve got to get going!”

On the playground, a toddler’s head popped up. He had a girl by his side that immediately looked sad that he would have to leave. Sherlock raised a hand, motioning towards him with a finger, beckoning him to come. Hamish gave a visible huff before telling his new friend goodby so he could run over to his mother.

“Mummy,” he whined, “I was having fun over thewe!”

His bit of a lisp made her smile as she mussed up his floppy curls. He had inherited them from her, but when he looked up at her, she was struck by how much she was reminded of John.

“Daddy’s going to be home soon and I want to get food ordered and on the way. You know how he likes that.” Beginning to carry him off, she continued talking on like she usually did. “I was thinking about Chinese. Would you want your noodles if we got that?”

An excited look crossed his face when the noodles were mentioned. He always ate them with his hands no matter how hard they tried to tell him how to properly eat it. John persevered on while Sherlock had given up that mission ages ago. Hamish was just as stubborn in his ways as she was and he was only three.

For the most part, Sherlock stayed at home with Hamish, save the few cases they took. Next year, he would be entering school at the Nursery level. Three hours, five days a week would be scheduled out for that. Even with that small amount of time, Sherlock was used to having him around. He listened to her talk and she knew he learned things when she conducted different experiments or talked about cases to John when he was home.

Cases were few with the schedule they had to keep. John worked most days, Sherlock kept her days full for Hamish and for herself. She only took them when they seemed utterly absorbing for her mind, whether they were from the Yard or random people begging for her assistance.

Even at his age, Sherlock took it upon herself -- mainly to keep from getting bored -- to teach him the basics so he might be able to move up a year or two when it came time for school to start. Simple reading skills, writing his name and the alphabet, a bit of spelling, addition and subtraction. The most advanced things he learned were science topics; species, periodic table of elements, acids and bases, conversion factors. And he was good at fetching things for experiments. John liked to call him Mummy’s little helper.

She fished out the keys to the flat from her purse and opened the door, balancing Hamish with an arm and one hip. “Go on and run upstairs,” she told him as she let him down. Hamish did just that, curls bouncing up and down in his wake.

While she had a chance to be alone, she called the restaurant and ordered their meals. About twenty minutes until delivery. John would be close to getting home by that time unless he skipped out early or they didn’t need an extra doctor on hand.

By the time she got upstairs, she could hear Hamish beginning to do something, probably playing with the toys John had got him for his last birthday. “Food’s on the way,” she told him as she stepped over the mess strewn around the room. “We should start picking up before Daddy gets home.”

“I don’t wanna,” Hamish whined, crossing his arms over his chest with the Hotwheel car clutched in his hand.

“Fine,” Sherlock said with an exasperated sigh, “I guess Daddy will trip over something and hurt himself then. And it will all be because you didn’t want to pick up.”

The little boy gave her a tooth grin at her usual argument to get him to do something. “No he won’t! Daddy won’t get huwt!”

“Oh yes can, and if you don’t pick up your toys he could trip over one,” she shot right back, raising her eyebrows to dare him to argue. He did that right back at her. It was a learned trait to just respond back like that. “Go on, clean it up.”

Hamish heavily sighed, but uncrossed his arms and started clearing the things out of the way. On a cleared out bottom shelf, he stacked his books up and put the bin of toys beside it. He pushed them back until they hit the back of the shelf, fitting perfectly inside it.

“Go wash your hands,” she next said, “Daddy and food will be here soon.” He stood and ran off up the stairs to get himself ready like they taught him to when he was prompted.

From downstairs, she heard the door unlock and John walk in. He smiled at her and walked in, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “How was your day? Anything interesting happen?”

“Hamish is proving he has better social skills than I have. And he’s only three. Only going to prove that he’ll end up better than me,” she whispered at him, looking up at him as he stood in front of her.

John chuckled and pressed another kiss to her cheek. “I’m sure he’ll get even better then. Only three, as you said. No schooling just yet where they’ll tell you exactly how to socialize with people. You must have missed that day in Nursery school.”

Sherlock shoved him away, glaring and shaking her head. “Arse. If I had known you would act this way, I wouldn’t have ordered food for us,” she muttered with a grin slowly coming over her face. “I ordered some Chinese. I thought little boy would want his noodles for the night.”

Before John got a chance to groan, Hamish bounded downstairs and jumped up for John to catch him as he always did. “How was your day big guy?”

That one prompt caused Hamish to prattle on about their whole day all through dinner -- between bites of the noodles in his hands and John scolding him -- and to the time it took them to get him to bed. Sherlock helped get his clothes on, ruffling up his hair with a small smile on her face. “There you go,” she murmured, lifting him up to set him in the bed, pulling up the covers so they were just under his chin how he liked it.

“We love you,” John whispered, smoothing back those short curls. “Have a nice sleep.” He pressed a kiss to the cleared forehead then took Sherlock’s hand to lead her downstairs. “Sounds like you two had a nice day together.”

“It wasn’t that long. He just likes talking and explaining things as you know. Has since he had the vocabulary to fit that.”

“Sounds like you.” He nudged her side with his elbow as they went back to the bedroom to get ready for bed as well.

Over the three years, much hadn’t changed. They still were only dating, moving on to a partnership since Sherlock wasn’t interested in marrying. John, thankfully, understood that and wasn’t forcing her into a next step she didn’t want.

“You had a good day too,” she inquired, changing into some sweats and one of John’s old shirts she had nicked ages ago.

“Sick kids, as usual. Nothing too spectacular.”

Sherlock laughed softly and shook her head. “I’m sure it wasn’t too bad. You should ask for something new if you’re getting too bored with the clinic aspect of the hospital.” She pulled her hair up into a ponytail and smiled at him. “Might make a bit more money too.”

“We’re fine on money. Enough to pay rent and keep up with the two of you.” John settled in on his side of the bed while she followed in his direction. He looked over at her before finally just taking her hand. “When Hamish starts school, we’ll take more cases.”

“Yeah, sorry. You know how I think.”

“And I love it. Now, let’s try to sleep. I’d like to get some before it gets too late.”

Sherlock leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to John’s lips. When she pulled away, she laid down on her side facing John before he laid down too. Her arm went around his waist a few moments later, ending the day as perfectly as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue cheesy ending of this piece!
> 
> But, staying serious, I had a lot of fun writing this and I hope you all that track this had a nice time reading it. Look out, I might choose to make this a series if I have enough time for it.


End file.
